The Prince
by oca2073
Summary: Prince Steffon Baratheon is the second born son of Robert and Cersei. How will his existence affect the coming events that are about to rock the Seven Kingdoms?
1. Chapter 1

The North was a vast place and largely empty, Steffon Baratheon thought as he surveyed the expansive plain broken occasionally by patches of evergreen forest. Even now in the height of summer there was a little frost he could see in the ground that crackled slightly as his horse named Orys cantered. It was his first time this far North, the wild and unpredictable North, full of never-ending wilderness and deepwood forest and ferocious wolves twice the size of what could be found in the South. No, the North was really no place for Southernors like him, Steffon knew, and he also knew that they were being received out of politeness alone. Even the old Targaryens atop their dragons rarely visited Winterfell. He felt like a stranger, out of place in unfamiliar woods, and he knew that much of the party of Southernors felt the same. This wasn't their land after all.

It was a region that seemed so different from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, that Steffon secretly felt the Northerners really did rule themselves and keep to their own affairs despite what fiction they might hold to, to keep the peace. He had heard countless times of his father complaining about how difficult it was to hold and how little integrated it was to the rest of the realm.

In size, the North was just about larger than the rest of the Kingdoms combined. Steffon remembered his old geography lessons that he had endured with Grand Maester Pycelle and thought of as many Northern houses as he could remember. Stark, Bolton, Manderly, Umber, Karstark, Hornwood, Mormont, Dustin, House Reed and the Crannogmen…

Steffon's train of thought was broken by the sudden looming sight of four massive rotund towers as the party of horses, wagons, and carriage came atop a crest of hill and he finally caught sight of the enormous castle complex, nothing comparable to the Red Keep in height but it spanned many acres and was its own self-contained keep and city, the home of thousands of smallfolk. Behind him, his father, the King let out a great shout and bellow of excitement as he caught sight of the fortress that he remembered well from his own youth. This would be the best opportunity to approach him, and Steffon had been waiting for quite some time for the right moment.

Urging his black mare forward, Steffon rode past dozens of knights and a few Kingsguard and soon caught up with his father who was still marvelling at the scene. They were on top a green hill overlooking the Kingsroad and the view stretched many miles to the distant hazy background which marked the edge of the Wolfswood. Steffon shivered involuntarily which made Robert glance at him momentarily.

"Well, is the Northern climate to your liking then? I remember I once visited up here many years ago travelling on this same road on a trip with Ned. Gods must have been nearly twenty five years ago when we were visiting his home together. My first time up in the North. Only then things weren't so bloody complicated."

"And now you plan on bringing him south to King's Landing," Steffon replied and he paused before adding, "But I'm guessing he has few good memories of the place where his father and grandfather were murdered."

His father glanced at him somewhat surprised and also, Steffon saw shame as he averted his face and Steffon knew that he had also inadvertently remembered the Targaryen children.

"Well what are you trying to say boy?"

"Hear me out. I know you haven't seen him for years and he's the only one to be trusted. But he has no history in politics, or understanding of the court. He's a newcomer and his position will be a precarious one if he does not learn and adapt quickly. And the Starks and Lannisters already have a mutual disdain for one another so it will be a challenge to prevent their rivalry from spilling over."

Robert looked back at him incredulously and blustered heatedly. "And so what would you have me do? Concede all power to those Lannisters?! Does it look as if I have any choice?"

He waited for just the right amount of time to display the perfect amount of hesitation, eagerness, and wariness that would be enough to persuade his father. "I think I'm ready to enter politics father. I've passed my fifteenth nameday. Appoint me to the Small Council and I can help Lord Stark navigate his way in King's Landing. I can also try to smooth out tensions between the two parties and I'll report directly to you if there's any trouble. It's high time I found something active to do in court anyways."

Robert took a swift drink from the wine flagon that Steffon knew never left his side at all times of the day and night. His face reddening, Steffon could see he was relenting.

"You've got some strange blood in you boy wanting to go into politics. Alright, I will appoint you to the Small Council to help Ned. Gods know he'll probably need it now that I think about it." Slapping Steffon on the back, Robert chuckled. "But you've some nerve just coming up to me like this. And you'll be able to tell me how he's doing and what the rest of the stink are up to. Give 'em hell for me, eh?"

Then Robert rode off ahead quickly while Steffon decided to fall back with the rest of the party while Ser Meryn overtook him swiftly to catch up with the King. Eventually turning his horse around, Steffon made his way to near the back of the procession that was inching forward at an excruciatingly slow pace. It had been the case the entire journey, where those at the front, having little to do while waiting for the damn carriage to catch up, they would practice swordplay, tell tall tales, and even hunt in the nearby woods of the Riverlands.

It was a large resplendent carriage decked with rubies and fine silken sheets and lace, being pulled by a team of matching stallions, finer than anything the North could ever make and Steffon knew his mother intended to display it as a symbol of wealth and power. It was, he reflected, extremely foolish of her and demonstrated how little she knew of the various parts of the realm and their distinctive attitudes. The Northerners he had ever met in the capital often held its finery and pompous grandiosity in disdain, and these were the wealthy lords he was thinking about. What would the smallfolk think of the King's company riding forth in all their majesty, Steffon wondered? Would they be regarded as superior beings with an aura of mystery, to be obeyed, almost like the gods themselves, or perhaps as arrogant foreigners, parading their wealth and might where did they not belong. But his mother never thought deeply about anything at all. He had tried to urge her that they should keep a lower profile in the North and not draw attention to themselves, for the North was not the Westerlands that respected power and wealth and gold, but she had told him off as usual.

Steffon finally caught sight of his two youngest siblings, perhaps half-siblings for he knew about his mother's long-standing affair with his uncle, but he truly did hope that both Myrcella and Tommen were his full siblings. But it truly didn't matter really, for he would always love them regardless, and he knew the dire consequences if his mothers' secrets were to be revealed. That had been his primary motivation for "volunteering" to help Lord Stark after all, and he suspected the reason for Jon Arryn's death.

Tommen and Myrcella, who had just passed her twelfth nameday before they left King's Landing, rode together on two noticeably smaller matching ponies and they looked extremely bored and weary from the accumulated rigours of travel. While they had all visited Casterly Rock twice before and Storm's End once, they had never been to Dragonstone so they knew little about the miseries of a sea voyage. This was however, by far the lengthiest journey any of them had ever undertaken. It seemed to begin abruptly and carry on without end, until they almost came to forget that they had once lived a sedentary life, cloistered away in the Red Keep. The natural rhythm of the highway and inns and tents roadside came to dominate all their thoughts and memories.

Myrcella and Tommen looked up at him as he approached, manoeuvring his horse to ride alongside them and slowing to a canter.

"Steffon! Where have you been all day? We've been looking for you and mother says you shouldn't stray too far off the Kingsroad like that."

"Well, I was having a word with father about our arrival. We're only a short ride's way from Winterfell, you know. If you follow me, I know a good place where you can see all of it and get a good picture of the surroundings. I know you and Tommen are only allowed out of the carriage for a couple hours per day." He smiled benignly at them both, and Myrcella as usual looked indecisive, half desiring to run off and experience the world on her own terms, but always half-ways at guilt for the fear of disappointing her mother.

"I want to go. It won't take too long to get mother angry right?" Steffon just smiled and he urged Tommen forwards and they rode together chatting about nonchalant subjects. Tommen was quite a naturalist and had been documenting all the various bugs he could find all throughout the journey, and making note of how their species would change as they went father north.

Myrcella meanwhile, he could see by glancing back with a smirk, was looking guiltily back at their mother's carriage but she followed reluctantly after her brothers. A knight approached the three of them but Steffon waved him off as they began to slowly ascend the hill…

"So that's it then." She was keenly surveying the vast expanse of hilly plain before her. "It's vast and somewhat majestic, but a bit rough and plain don't you think?

The castle of Winterfell loomed before them, a mighty, cluttered fortress resting on a hill with a dozen or so towers clumped around its centre, and a clear mud trodden path that led right to its main gate and a few smallfolk were travelling about, avoiding the King's party and quickly bowing half-heartedly only when necessary.

"Northerners have never been known to value ostentation of any kind. I even admire them for that. There's not much room to think about anything here except utility and survival and that is reflected in their customs, their architecture, their manner of speech," Steffon mused as much for his own benefit as for her.

"Tommen no come back here!" And Myrcella was off, riding more swiftly than he would have thought her capable, in fear of their youngest brother's safety who was after all only eight and overly enthusiastic at the prospect of anything new. Tommen had begun to gallop excitedly in the direction of Winterfell, almost losing control of his pony. Steffon watched, whistling a high tune as he gazed amused at the antics of his siblings, feeling a sense of nostalgia for when he too had been young enough to enjoy them. Then he turned away from them to ride back towards the rest of the procession.

(This is an attempted rewrite of the original The Prince that was written just in dialogue, though some things will be changed.)


	2. Chapter 2

They were all ready now, an orderly procession prepared to file in through the main outer gates of Winterfell. Steffon rode near the rear of the company as he saw ahead the great bulging figure of his father up front as he gave a hand signal, there was a great shout to advance as the gates of Winterfell started to creak and they all went forth onto the steadily lowering drawbridge.

Just in front of him rode Joffrey eyeing everything with trademark disdain and to the side their mother's carriage and Tommen and Myrcella who were back inside, probably receiving a scolding. There was another great shout ahead as Steffon eyed the great Winterfell battlements looming above them and a creaking thud as the bolts were unfastened and the interior gates were pulled open to admit them.

Beside Joffrey was Sandor Clegane in a dog helm, his personal bodyguard as arranged by their mother, looking faintly uncomfortable astride his horse, eyeing everything suspiciously. Steffon meanwhile did feel slightly uneasy from manipulating his father earlier, just like how his many advisors and courtiers did, but the stakes were simply too high in this case for anything else. His father had always favoured him by far out of his siblings even from his birth; he had been named after the cherished memory of his own father Steffon, who had perished in a sea voyage off Storm's End.

Even in his gut instinct he might have known that I was more his child than his other children, Steffon mused silently to himself. He urged Orys forward and they clambered through the ironwood gates. There was silence as the courtyard and all the residents of the castle received the King down on one knee, heads bowed in obedience. Glancing amusedly in front to Joffrey who was waving enthusiastically and looking proudly all about him, Steffon again ruminated on his brother/probable half brother's unfitness to rule.

Perhaps it was the way he acted naturally, he was simply better than his siblings, certainly Joffrey. He had been able to read at an advanced level from a young age, his learning quickly outstripped all of Maester Pycelle's lessons. Perhaps, his simple presence, others' expectations, early accomplishments… He had been knighted at age fourteen and won a tourney and melee at Lannisport the next year while Joffrey was still experimenting with knives and crossbows.

So there had been the expected hush as he rode through the main gates. His reception unnerved him, to think how word spread so quickly to all corners of the realm. He was scanning the courtyard intently and caught sight of the row of Starks standing in a neat line waiting for the King and smiled inwardly to himself at the thought of his mother's reaction. He knew her well to know that she loathed meeting any high ranking nobles who were not of the family.

But the crowd continued to murmur as he came to a halt. They called him the Black Prince to distinguish him from his other siblings and apparently because he stood out in terms of deeds and ability. He was long used to the crowd being far more enthused to see him than his older brother the heir apparent, but he had not expected it in a place as faraway as Winterfell. But then again after all, he always acted in every way proper to a noble prince at least outwardly and so he conformed perfectly to their expectations.

The chief problem for him was that it irked Joffrey to no end, and one day it would be him sitting on the Iron Throne. And Joffrey was neither stable mentally nor in temperament. Steffon often mused to himself only half-jokingly that he might one day be obliged to go into exile across the Narrow Sea and seek his fortunes in the Free Cities.

Steffon grimaced as he watched his father dismount. King Robert was a gruff man grown enormously fat over the long years and his face was starting to droop from excess drinking, his eyes were sunken and he spoke in an increasingly strained, though still boisterous tone.

Sansa stood watching the line of Baratheon knights in admiration, the shining armour of the Kingsguard and their formidable horses and weapons. In particular, her eyes fell on the handsome firstborn prince and heir to the throne. Joffrey was tall, handsome, and looked every bit the prince that she had been expecting.

"But what do you think about his younger brother?"

Then that annoying, little git of a sister had to open her big, fat mouth again.

"They say the Black Prince is a great warrior even for his age," Arya said somewhat dreamily taking it all in. "He certainly looks the part, he's much bigger and stronger than his older brother." That did catch Sansa's attention. Swerving her gaze to look at him critically, she could hardly believe the two brothers could be related.

"You think Prince Steffon is handsome?" she whispered surprised, eyeing her suspiciously, as Arya had never show any interest in boys before.

Well he is," Sansa admitted to herself, "but he always seems so dark and brooding" she considered disapprovingly. The prince certainly was tall, nearly a head over Joffrey despite being the younger, with long raven black hair like his father and with a similar strong build, but without the fire. He rode confidently with an experienced air but he also had the clear facial characteristics of his other siblings, especially his quite prominent green eyes that he had clearly inherited from his mother.

But all in all Sansa was still startled at how different Steffon appeared compared to his own father, despite their glaring similarities. Steffon had a more measured demeanour about him, though very near to the appearance and strong build of his father in his youth, if the tales of King Robert had any truth in them. Looking over at his excess frame, Sansa wasn't sure.

"Come on," Myrcella cried impatiently tugging at his arm, "let's meet the other Stark children." Steffon sighed and dismounted and rolled his eyes in exaggerated fashion deliberately that made Tommen chuckle. Their mother had just finished greeting the Starks and was strolling towards them now, and Steffon braced himself for a scolding as soon as they were out of earshot from everybody.

"So you're the Black Prince then?" Robb asked a smile tugging ironically on his face with a slightly mocking emphasis on those two words.

"I see my reputation does precede me," Steffon replied smirking back, "completely not my intention I assure you." They shook his hands, Steffon noting that Robb had a deceptively strong grip. Sansa then curtsied and made some lie about needing to help her mother with the preparations for the feast and departed.

"Well let me give you a tour of Winterfell," Robb continued as he continued to play the polite, if disinterested host. "Shall we walk along the path to the godswood to see the sights?"

"That would be perfect," Steffon replied glancing to his siblings who nodded enthusiastically and were eying Bran and Arya shyly. "Please lead the way."

The group of them began to walk slowly and Bran and Arya led the conversation as Robb continued to discuss and describe Winterfell at Steffon's request. Trailing them were a sentry of Lannister guards as always. Personally he found the castle grim and austere for a regional seat, but it struck him favourably for its authentic ambience. Even in its bleak and somewhat haggardly appearance, Steffon could sense the bustling life and community of the place and if he was not mistaken, there was an innocent carefree attitude to its people that he cherished.

Then they passed the training yards and Robb did not pass over the opportunity to show off the martial skill of the Stark's fighting men. The Northmen, Steffon noted were lightly armoured but there was little doubt that they were the more experienced fighters compared to those typically from the South. All along the practice yards he could hear their shouts and the clatter of metal upon metal of hundreds of men at their daily bouts, their faces streaked with mud, sweat and blood. They were certainly taking it more seriously than he had ever seen the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing.

Even from a distance, he could see its spindly branches stuck awkwardly out and it towered over some of the nearby grey battlements. Descending from its shoots it grew gradually into a thick and heavy trunk that looked more solid than stone with a stark weirwood face carved that seemed to entrance and terrify all who looked upon it simultaneously.

Ah this was the famed godswood of Winterfell, Steffon thought to himself as he noticed his younger siblings gasping at the sight and Arya laughing at their reactions while Bran merely gave a small smirk. Three acres of forest within the castle walls, they had nothing in the Red Keep so magnificent. Next to the grandeur of the godswood, their delicate southern gardens seemed nothing by comparison.

"Well I see ash, chestnut, hawthorn, ironwood, oaks, and pines," Steffon mused. "Quite a number of

"You know your trees that's for sure," Robb said more comfortably than before, "my prince." he added as an afterthought. They were circling the black pool, so dark that no sheer reflection could be glimpsed.

Along the edges of the godswood Myrcella noticed white smoke pluming out of the dirt ground and so she went to examine the steam emitted from Winterfell's hot springs, asking questions along the way to Bran while Steffon smiled as Tommen approached the weirwood face with a clear look of uncertainty etched on his features as he stared at the blood tears staining its stern wooden face. Meanwhile Steffon and Robb started to talk about history.

"Ten thousand years you say?" Steffon asked with fascination.

"Bran the Builder built this castle around this grove because of its importance to the First Men. The hot springs make winter more tolerable here than any northern castle." They had reached the three small pools that were so heated and steam continuously rose from the surface as Steffon held out his hand to feel it and to try the water.

"It's warm enough that you can even bathe here during the winters," Robb said smiling in reminiscence to his early childhood days. This was after all, the longest summer in living memory; for nine years Winterfell had not snowed once.

They made their way back towards the weirwood heart tree as Tommen, Myrcella, Arya and Bran were still talking underneath its great shadow. Steffon was thinking how ancient the North and many places in the Seven Kingdoms were compared to King's Landing, a new city that had been founded less than three hundred years ago.

"What's a godswood," Tommen asked finally tugging on Robb's sleeve. "What do you mean when you say you pray to the godswood, do you pray to the tree?"

"Tommen!" his sister reproached him. "Don't be rude to our hosts."

Steffon bit back a laugh as he watched Robb's reaction turn from surprise to slight anger to exasperation as he didn't really want to entertain the question. There was a space of awkward silence between them before Robb turned to go.

"Let's head back then," Robb said looking to the light which was beginning to fade already. The days were longer this far north, Steffon noted to himself, during summertime. So they retraced their steps through the godswood and reached the granite castle towers again. Steffon noted the glass gardens nearby and upon asking, Robb led their group towards them where his siblings marvelled at the heat and variety of southern plants and vegetables that could be grown quite easily.

"That's the library and there the entrance to the crypts," Robb pointed out. Steffon watched as Lord Stark and his father just happened to emerge from up its steps out of inky darkness. His father waved at him and gave him an approving nod but he turned away to walk with Lord Stark who also exchanged a quick glance with his children.

The feast that night was loud, riotous with plenty of game and good ale served. Steffon and his siblings including Joffrey were seated together as per the custom, noble children were not allowed at the high-table no matter their rank or station. The King, Steffon was bemused to note was consorting with the servant maids much to the disgust of mother who held herself as regally and dignified as she could muster and trying to ward off small talk from Lady Stark.

Myrcella was red in the face and Steffon knew she had been sneaking ale when their mother wasn't looking. "Little lady shouldn't drink so much," he teased her across the table and made her jump at the discovery. "You might just regret it come the morning."

He was beginning to feel a bit light-headed what with the loud music and the drinking which was most uncharacteristic of him and he could spot several girls eyeing him, or was it his elder brother? In any case he didn't much care to find out and as soon as he saw Arya being pushed off to bed by Robb at the insistence of her brother, he himself stood up as surreptitiously as possible and left the great hall.

The rather cold wind was a welcome for his stale cheek, long left too comfortable and warm by the fires of the hearth inside with all the feasting and mischief. Carrying himself through the night that was barely lit up by dim torches, he heard a sudden repeated whacking which carried him forward and away again from the direction of their guest tower where the royal family was arranged to reside. Who was still training so late at night and with an ongoing feast to attend as well?

He remembered having seen him before at the procession to welcome the King. He cut a rather dark and frustrated figure, maybe a year older than himself, diligently attacking a training post. Steffon picked up a blunted sword nearby and called out, "Bit late to still be out in the yards don't you think? Want to have a match?"

It was dark and his opponent had not recognized him, which was good because he wanted a real challenge. In the relative darkness, he looked less of a fifteen year old than a man full grown, tall and heavy-shouldered enough to pass for a strong knight. Jon eyed him strangely and Steffon could see he was quite angry at being interrupted but he stepped forward.

There was a mad flurry of blows that he could barely ward off, it must have been the aftermath of the feast. Turning deftly, he made him overextend himself in pursuit leaving a small gap in his defence that he took and rapped him hard between the shoulder blades.

Jon was struck hard enough that he almost fell to the floor but he remained standing and grimacing, continued to press the offensive. It proved to be moot however. His opponent was fleet-footed and the most challenging swordsman that Jon had faced in quite a while. Manoeuvring always to his benefit as he exposed constant deficiencies in his stance and counterattacked efficiently while seeming to effortlessly parry and frustrate his attempts, Jon simply couldn't touch him. They went at it for ten minutes and his opponent had barely a scratch while he was sporting ugly welts and bruises all over. He did do better once he learned to respect his opponent and refrained from any rash moves. But Jon was reminded of the experience of being completely outclassed by his master of arms when he had been considerably younger and he could only stare at amazement now as he looked more closely and realized his opponent was younger than him.

"You're amazing," Jon said as he nursed his injuries and wheezing again. "I can see I can learn a lot from you. Want another bout?"

Steffon shook his head a little amused, "Not tonight at any rate, I feel like throwing up as I ate a bit too much. You were good too you know," he said as he put his hand up to his mouth and gave a giant burp. "You forced me to try my hardest and I couldn't exactly relax. There aren't many I've met who can fight like you."

"Yeah well, I still didn't give you much trouble…"

"But I've had the best training available in the kingdoms. I served as page and squire to Ser Barristan, learned from my uncle as well as Sandor Clegane…"

"Prince… Steffon? My apologies I did not recognize you." Of course it was obvious now that Jon thought about it. It had to have been the Black Prince for him to be so roundly beaten. He was after all only the youngest knight anointed since Daemon Blackfyre. As the awe of the occasion was only slowly dawning on him, Jon felt himself grow increasingly speechless.

"No matter. And you are?"

Jon almost grimaced, but he took the surprising extended proffered hand and shook it. "I'm Jon. Jon Snow." The grip was strong enough for someone his age, not to mention he towered over him considerably in height. Must be the Baratheon blood in him, Jon thought to himself. I wonder that his siblings look nothing at all like him, they must have inherited everything from their mother instead.

Looking more closely at the Prince, he was also surprised at his plain attire, clothed in black with furs and plain leather, which looked more suited for a northern lord than anything he had seen the southrons wear. Steffon must have caught him staring too intently for he laughed and took to renew their conversation.

"So why weren't you at the feast tonight? Lovely atmosphere, beautiful ladies, good northern ale and fresh game…"

"Lady Stark thought it would insult our guests to have a bastard seated in the midst." Jon shrugged.

"Ah," Steffon said looking somewhat uncomfortable and at a loss for words. "Well, that's quite a rarity I must say, I've never seen elsewhere… Anyways…" Steffon broke off as he spotted what could only be a Stark relative approaching them, clad all in the black of the Night's Watch. "I'll leave you to it then," and gave a nod as Benjen came forward, who Steffon thought greatly resembled Jon, as he gave him a half-bow and an appraising look.

"Good night and it was good to meet you," he said and took his leave walking steadily away feeling somewhat more contented than before. It always felt good to loosen his arm a bit and swing at stuff… Meanwhile he had a letter for Lord Stark to write and ponder over.

When he had completed his work he looked it over until he was satisfied and then he got ready for bed as Tommen and Myrcella were already asleep and his mother was probably about to return as well, although the King was nowhere to be seen. He folded the letter and placed it on himself and blew out the candles…

It was the most comfortable feather bed he had slept on for nearly a month and he sure wasn't used to it as he was tossing and turning fitfully even as he had pretended to be asleep when their mother came to check on all of them…

No one could ever be sure that Joffrey or Tommen or Myrcella were really all bastards, one or all of them, no one can prove anything as long as he, Steffon existed. He tried to reassure himself of this, that the secret was safe, but now with Jon Arryn murdered, Eddard Stark set to arrive in the capital and what with Stannis' worrying disappearance…

Steffon could dimly remember a time when his father had been more involved with his children but it was a while back, before the Greyjoy rebellion. After that great war was finished he had seriously let himself go, even as a child he could recognize this. Long years of peace and summer had done him no good at all…

The whole of the Seven Kingdoms is political fiction, he mused to himself in the pitch darkness of his own thoughts. All the various Lord Paramounts whose power often exceeded the King's only agreed to the arrangement so they could fight over the Iron Throne or the entire realm indirectly, and so use their power to influence and dominate the entire realm and other regions as opposed to just their own. Perhaps once, the various lords really did cower before the King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. But that would have been a time when dragons still existed and the memory of Aegon's conquest was fresh in everyone's minds.

As Steffon lay in silence in the stillness of the tower, he began to think back at their long journey, the various parts of the realm they had passed, committing the places to memory, even in his sleep, numerous towns and keeps by riverside, the twins flanking the crossing, the dense marshland of the neck road, coming north finally to the ruins of Moat Cailin, the gateway to the North, continuing up the Kingsroad now as the settlements grew sparser and the climate grew colder and colder with every league… As sleep and the cold claimed him and his mind faded into gentle slumber and rest…


End file.
